Madness Combat: Battle Scars
by DodgeStreaker
Summary: Though unaware its not just him, but, some battle scars just never heal... - Disclaimer: Madness Combat (c) Krinkels


He hadn't realized it before, honestly he wasn't sure why he hadn't done so early or was he just not admitting it, but he realized just how much he hated it, so much it lead down to the core of his heart for where the hatred burned. Peace. He hated it, nothing was ever going to change that. All his life he had known nothing else but a terrible cruel thing that was for a future, having to fight and kill anything that stood in his way from his goal of revenge on those who had destroyed everything of his! But he had also agreed to their goal as well, to gain and grasp hold of peace so he could finally sit down and rest without the worry of being attacked or undergoing some kind of stressful work. He was still young after all. But he didn't know what to do at all now. Peace. It was the one thing that gave him time to think, so much time that in fact it drew him away from his major obsessions and made him think all day. Everyday, every single night, he thought and he dreamed though when he thought he dreamed only nightmares occurred to haunt him and of course, because of peace he shoved his _friends_ away, he was all alone.

And with each night, he would wake up screaming and thrashing while being twist in his blanket or laying on the floor staring at the ceiling and he would just lie there and that's when the thinking would start back up again. But that had only been the beginning and all was getting worse as he traveled down the road he had once the war between the A.A.H.W. and its Anti had ended. He knew, all of his talents, they were being wasted from not being used, his bad habits worsening and now his even more constant isolation from the world he thought would lead his life down a good path from then on. Then would come those endless days and nights he would lose himself to all the time and all his thoughts rushing around his mind until he snapped back to reality. Sitting or laying for days until he broke down and was battered from the lack of sleep, eating, everything. There was nothing **but** exhaustion for him now.

Ever since they had won, ever since this accursed peace had been achieved he had been **nothing** and he was completely miserable. He couldn't bring himself to face the world most of the time and lose not only himself but old comrades, old _friends_, he used to know as he fixed into a trance and fueled his mind on the lies he told himself were true. Most cases he almost had led himself to a serious cutting habit till Sanford had taken all his knives, Hank taking all his other weapons so he could only sit there, curled in a ball somewhere as he continued to drive himself mad but still unable to hurt himself badly. He seemed to have started to smoke less and less which would seem like a good thing but it now usually lead him into a deep depression, he also seemed to refuse to use his laptop as well now. There was no more hacking into government websites for the fun of it, to learn their dark secrets and what projects they're working on, there was no more checking his e-mails from old comrades, there was nothing else to do anymore. He felt weak and helpless and all he could do was think of all the horrible things done to him.

Sometimes it hit him in the back of the head, all of it at random times and he would have an outburst without thinking, tossing stuff and doing anything he could to release the rage that somehow had filled up. Either, or he would break down into a silent sob, telling himself he was useless, pathetic, that he deserved to die, that he **should** have died during the war. It was all at random, a reason he stayed away from others and locked himself away, too afraid to ask for help, too afraid to hurt someone. He would look over himself every time he took a shower, to see all the scars from past knife wounds and club injuries anything melee, or where he had been shot and San had to perform a quick basic surgery and literally ripping out the bullets and he would smile and laugh at the pain instead of cry. Those were the times he felt was all right. Having the pain, going through it all together, winning, losing, being beat till they could hardly stand, the constant stressful work keeping him sane and Sanford and Hank yelling at him that smoking was bad, telling him he should quit while he still had the chance. It was all gone now and he swore to God so much that he missed it and he wanted it all back. Peace wasn't his thing, war was his fate, it was the way he wanted to go out, from all the thinking he had done he came up with that. He wanted to die on a battlefield with his honor not rot away in this now crummy life of his.

On days he would just lie down and try to push the thoughts that dared to creep into his head, on others he would just them swarm him when he let his guard down. He learned more about himself in such a little amount of time than he done all his life. He mainly just wanted to remember and know only the basics however such as his smoking habit, him probably being the best technician in all the Anti-A.A.H.W., an outgoing not afraid to get hurt young man who would do anything in his power to get some action, and of course the last thing he had been from the day he had joined the Anti. Deimos. It was his alias, his new name, his new self. He couldn't even remember his old name, his old self before he joined into the chaotic war let alone any of the reasons of what had happened to him prior of the life when he was supposedly happy with the people he called his _family_. Maybe...maybe he should start over his life, but he wouldn't, he couldn't because he was so attached to the past. So where was he now?

Well that was something he didn't know. He was lost, he was broken, so off course on the way, the path he wanted to take was long far behind him and it was suffocating him. He was broken beyond repair, beaten up all inside and he felt dead. Peace was destroying him, destroying what remained of his old self and that was something he didn't like, but how could he fight it? He was holding on too tight to something that had died too many years ago. Now he was living somewhere in the new era, an era where the Auditor was gone, Tricky was gone, Jebus and the Sheriff, they were gone to. Though he still wish this life would end, end it all, make the war come back, anything to bring the old Deimos back to life. But like that was ever going to happen, it was an impossible dream, one he couldn't chase. It would **never** happen. His old battle scars were nagging at him about it so, he knew it was all over so why did he even continue? Why? Why..._why...?_

* * *

He continued to stare at the ceiling, all these thoughts overtaking his mind but then he suddenly crushed them all and tossed them out. He knew what he had to do, even if it hurt. He had been dead for so long, it was time he made a comeback. Get off his pathetic ass and get a life. He had mopped and broke down everyday of his life for how many years he didn't even know. He knew however that it wasn't too late, that he was only making a late start on the race. He wasn't useless, he wasn't going to let his thoughts, those stupid lies he told himself get the better of him anymore! For the first time in so long, he felt the corner of his lips curl into a smirk, how he missed his old ambitions of proving himself worthy. He felt something warm stream down his face and he wiped them away refusing to believe them, because he wasn't going to cry, so whatever the liquid that was streaming down his face, it was the real lie. He refused to believe it, whatever his intentions were they were making him-

Getting to his feet he shifted aside the mess of his room and threw open the closet doors, heaving out a heavy box from the top shelf and dropping it with a loud _thud_. It was his old gear. _His old gear..._ It had been so long since he last used it, actually since the last time he had even bothered to look at it, but this time it was for basics only. As he threw on his trench coat over his white tank-top, the backpack with it but lighter, empty, slipping into an old pair of worn out baggy jeans, combat boots and grabbing his sun visor and setting it on his ragged down matted short black hair. But for some reason the picture just didn't fit, missing something in fact. Then he lit up with a beaming smiling as he slipped a cigarette into his mouth and lit it, now he was complete, the old Deimos was ready to be revived completely now. The set was complete and he walked out to his front door, opening it and letting the warm bright light and devastating heat pour in. Peace or war, it didn't matter anymore. He was Deimos, with a little time to adjust he'd be fine, it was only in his nature after all.

_ Because he didn't think __**why**_ _it happened, but only that it __**had**_ _happened and that there was no reason that he couldn't reach his goals, whatever they are. Because nothing changes the fact that battle scars will only and always remain just as battle scars._


End file.
